Part I (Yours)
Each time you lead me to the box,
I get in:
Willingly, even gratefully.
I close my eyes and hear the locks click.
The room begins to spin.
But you just shrug,
And drop your hacksaw to the floor,
Then walk offstage--
Your arm around the latest bunny
Pulled from your hat--
As I beg you:
Either let me out,
Or pick up that saw and finish the job.
Part II (Mine)
I can't plead ignorance.
I'm no wide-eyed ingénue,
No stranger to smoke and mirrors,
Or sleight of hand.
Still, I thought you'd be different.
Not like the black-hearted juggler,
Or the mime, who enacted his silent obscenities
On the stage of my soul.
You’re quite an illusionist, darling,
But you’re not the only one.
Can't you see through my sequins and stage make-up?
I'm sick of crouching in hidden compartments,
Emerging on cue,
Letting you cut me in half for the cheering crowd.
I mean it this time.
Your magic words can't stop me,
And those flowers up your sleeve won't change my mind.
When the curtain goes up tonight,
You'll be on your own, baby.
You can tell them whatever you want.
I'll be halfway to Vegas by then.
Pam Moss is a battle-worn former ICU nurse based in Cincinnati. She has seen enough tragedy and gore to last a lifetime. She can't afford therapy, so she writes poetry instead. Her work has appeared in Antipoetry Magazine.